


A tigress, not a woman

by TweedStoat



Series: The Ladies Rebellion [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Ableism, Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Elia Martell Deserves Better, Elia Martell Lives, Elia Martell-centric, Gen, Not for Arthur Dayne fans either, Not for Rhaegar/Lyanna fans, Period-Typical Sexism, and in this fic she gets it, but can it be called winning when your wife publicly ruins your image idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TweedStoat/pseuds/TweedStoat
Summary: “She is no ordinary woman; no one making an enemy of her will win an easy victory” – Euripides, MedeaAlternatively: Elia knows how to leave a shitty marriage with a bang.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen
Series: The Ladies Rebellion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063757
Comments: 99
Kudos: 233
Collections: Elia Martell Creative Festivals, Elia Martell Fanworks Week, Southern Renaissance (Dorne Renaissance)





	A tigress, not a woman

Elia looks around the Great Sept as she prays before the statue of the Mother, admiring its beauty. The windows of coloured glass are magnificent, and she loves seeing the light fracture and bounce around the white marble halls. Even if her farce of a marriage was officiated here and set all the other disasters in her life in motion, well, that’s not the fault of the Sept, is it? But she cannot be seen glancing about idly, so she bends her head and pretends to pray once more.

It is the second day of Lady Lyanna’s labour and the whole palace waits with bated breath to see what will happen. Elia thinks the girl will make it, barely. Indeed, she practically commanded her own midwife, Septa Eleanor, to keep her alive despite Pycelle’s butchers’ techniques. She’ll need the girl alive for what she intends to do. But after a day with no further progress, she thought it was time to put things in motion, while her husband was distracted, and asked to go to the Great Sept to pray for a safe delivery.

What a reversal, she thinks to herself, making the sign of the seven-pointed star over her brow and chest. To think that only a year and a half ago Rhaegar was likely happily anticipating her death in childbirth so he could marry his northerner, and now he stands pacing outside the Stark girl’s rooms while she howls and rains down curses on him.

Elia stands up as quickly as she can, trying not to wince at the dull ache all over her body from her lengthy display of piety. She has many tricks to hide the pains she feels in her legs and knees, but she hasn't had the time to think of disguises for her new problems. Since her back-to-back pregnancies her lower back hurts so fiercely she sometimes feels as though she could snap in half at the waist. 

Thank goodness Ashara has managed to bully Maester Pycelle into preparing more of that mint, cajuput, and clove ointment she used back home. Elia glances around and quickly slips behind a marble pillar so she can massage the small of her back without anyone seeing. Yes, she is going to need her ointment tonight before bed so she can sleep without those terrible aches and spasms. 

She fixes a serene look on her face and steps back into the nave of the Sept. It is difficult deciding whether she wants a girl or a boy for her children’s half-sibling. Obviously, a girl would be less of a threat to Aegon and would be the sensible thing to want. But her rage has clouded her good sense and a boy would make Rhaegar so wonderfully unhappy. He’d lock himself in the library and re-read those blasted scrolls of his from dawn to dusk to discover why the gods hadn’t given him his Visenya.

Ashara is by the statue of the Maid playing a clapping game with Rhaenys to keep her busy, and Aegon is fussing in Wynona Wyl’s arms. Her heart clenches so hard she feels breathless as she looks over at them. Her sweet, innocent children. She hopes they’ll understand why she needs to do this. She hopes they don’t feel abandoned by yet another parent, that they won’t hate her for leaving them. But even if they do, Elia will gladly accept their anger or disappointment, so long as they are alive and have their rights.

She sighs aloud, thinking of the grand hopes she had when she was younger before her betrothal to Rhaegar was decided. She’d always believed that any children she had would grow up as she did: with parents who loved each other and their children, happy and cherished. Her husband’s actions have made that impossible now, but she can still ensure that her children are safe and that will have to suffice.

Arthur, who has come to guard them, is staring oddly at the statue of the Crone, with a hangdog look on his face. Wynona glides past him, seeing the statue his eyes are fixed on, and with a smile of cheerful malice tells him that traitors like him would be better off praying for loyalty than wisdom.

Elia snorts in amusement and then hastily coughs to cover it up, pretending that the velvety incense wafting from a young acolyte's censer is too strong.

The war of words her lady companions have been waging against Arthur, and Arthur’s total inability to fight something he can’t cut in half with a sword, are excellent distractions from the mess of her life right now. 

She should step in and order them to stop, but the truth is that between trying to din sense into Rhaegar’s thick skull, and staying strong for her children, she simply doesn’t have the energy to help anyone else. Especially someone who would never help her in return.

So, when Ginny Fowler said that a group of peasants had lined the Princes’ pass and pelted Arthur with rotten turnips and spat on him, she had been vaguely amused. When Pilar Santagar had taken to putting Dornish peppers and lemons on a string and waving it around to ward away the ‘air of evil’ that hung around Arthur she had to bite her tongue to stop from joining the laughter. When Lucrezia Gargalen told the ladies in Elia’s sewing circle that it would be prudent to veil their faces around degenerates while Arthur stood guard in front of the room, she rolled her eyes and let them do as they pleased.

After all it’s not like she doesn’t understand. Rhaegar is King now, although he remains uncrowned, and Kings cannot be spat at, or pelted with rotten food, or have their morals called into question. At least not if people want to keep their hands and tongues firmly attached to their bodies. All the anger must go somewhere, and her countrymen have decided that Arthur makes for an excellent target. It makes sense. An enemy could be accorded a grudging respect. What can be said of a man who willingly participated in the degradation of his own homeland?

She still can’t believe he had the nerve to come begging to her to stop the insults. He had his helmet in his hands and his tail between his legs and he’d come to ask if she could be persuaded to curb her ladies.

Who does he think he is? Who does he think _she_ is? She’d managed to push down her sudden boiling rage and simply looked at him as blankly as she looked at Rhaegar whenever he made one of his anaemic attempts at repairing their relationship. And perhaps Arthur had understood the loathing behind her dead-eyed look, for he’d quietly apologised and excused himself.

Good.

Her body has always been weak, but her spirit is twice as strong to make up for it. It has had to be. 

By nature, like Doran, she is a patient person. They both believe in second chances, and are slow to anger, happy to give people the benefit of the doubt. That's what she has done. Ever since Harrenhal she’s given Arthur plenty of rope and the fool has gone and hung himself with it. Now what does he expect her to do? Elia stops suddenly, realizing that her agitated thoughts have made her pace around with clenched fists. She breathes deeply and slowly straightens her fingers out, like a cat unsheathing its claws. 

A ruckus outside interrupts her musings, and she watches as a septa gallops nearer on horseback. One of the squires dawdling near the entrance hollers something up at the lady. She jumps down, flings the reins at him, and runs up the steps with her holy robes billowing out behind her. _Good heavens_ , Elia thinks, _Eleanor certainly knows how to make a dramatic entrance._

“Your Grace,” the septa says, skidding to a halt, “the Lady Lyanna is delivered of a son.” A son. _A son._ A bloody son! She wishes she was strong enough to grab her husband by the throat and wring his pale neck. Where are his stupid prophecies now? Where’s that girl he swore Lyanna would bear?

Ashara and the rest of her ladies have crowded around her, and at this revelation, muttering begins. She thinks she can hear the word “Blackfyre” once or twice but that might just be her own paranoia.

Lucrezia has stopped a harried looking acolyte and ordered him to fetch some water, and Eleanor greedily gulps it down and dabs at her mouth with the corner of her wimple.

“Septa, how fares Prince Rhaegar?” asks sharp-eyed Pilar. Thank goodness her ladies are taking charge, Elia is frozen to the spot and can feel her heart pounding in her stomach.

“The King is _furious_ ,” Eleanor says, lowering her voice. “When we told him it was a boy, he just stood there, stunned, and then strode out of the room while Lady Lyanna was just coming around. I came to tell Princess Elia at once, but while the stable boys were readying a horse, they told me they’d heard that the king was writing over all the letters announcing the birth of a princess and changing the word to ‘prince’. I think he’s stopping the jousts and festivities he arranged for the babe’s birth too!”

“Just coming around? She fainted?” Wynona inquires. “But she’ll live?”

“Yes, but it was a close thing. After such a long birth she was too weak to pass the afterbirth and then she started bleeding terribly. The grand maester was completely useless! I ended up having to push him aside and tend to her myself.” 

More muttering starts up at this and Elia is still standing rooted to the spot when Ashara comes up behind her, gently slips her hand inside Elia’s clenched fist, and twines their fingers together. “Come Elia, it’s time.” Wynona comes up on her other side, turns her around by the shoulders, and begins steering her to the trial rooms of the Sept. 

A horrible feeling of doubt is rising up in her now. She had been so certain of everything until this day, the plan had seemed like the best in her circumstances when she had gone over it with her brothers. Perhaps she should stop this? A girl would have been uncharted territory but a boy cannot be anything but dangerous. But does the increased danger of a boy mean she is on the right course? A strong man, a strong faction behind her to protect her son against the evils of a pretender? 

And what to do about Lyanna? She thought keeping the girl alive would serve as the best shield against Tywin’s rapaciousness. She’s seen him looking at Rhaegar almost hungrily sometimes, and everyone knows of the thwarted ambitions he had for his golden daughter. Rhaegar can hardly take Cersei as his wife if Lyanna lives. But what if Lyanna only has sons? Sons who will fight to usurp her own poor boy?

Wynona gives her a gentle shove into the courtroom and Ashara slams the door behind them, straight in Arthur’s face.

“Look at me Elia,” Wynnie says in her calm low voice, while Arthur bangs on the door demanding to be let in. “I can see the doubt in your eyes, but you have set upon the correct path.” Elia shakes her head and starts to interrupt but Wynona cuts her off.

 _“Listen!_ Rhaegar and the Northern girl have angered too many people to be able to do as they please now. The Storm Lords and the Valemen are angry that Lord Robert and Lord Jon died at the Trident. The whole north is angry at Lyanna for willingly running off with the Prince while their brave boys died to bring her back home. Tywin Lannister is angry that his golden girl was passed over by the Targaryens yet again, and Hoster Tully is angry that he threw his lot in with the losing side. And somehow, somewhere the Tyrells are angry that they haven’t made the best of this situation like the uppity stewards they are! With all this division, Aegon is the best person to rally around. A strong new marriage and a powerful man behind you can do this!”

“But if they take issue with his Dornish blood-”

Ashara, leaning on the door to keep her brother out, loses her temper at this. “To hell with his Dornish blood Ellie!” she says stridently. “I agree with Wynona. Aegon’s Dornish blood may be misliked but do you really think they’d cast him aside for the son of some Northern whore?”

“You would agree with her, you hot-head! People wanted to cast Daeron aside for the son of Aegon’s mistress,” Elia responds breathlessly.

“Don't be vulgar, Ash” Wynona drawls. “We are in the house of the Gods.” She flicks her fingers at Ashara who responds cheekily by sticking her tongue out and making a rude gesture. 

Looking back at Elia she continues, “Foul language aside, Ashara is correct. I know you worry about the Blackfyres but this situation is different in several respects. Aegon the Unworthy had his detractors but he never set half the realm ablaze for a mistress, and never tried to marry again while Naerys still lived. Daemon was a Targaryen on both sides and could rely on his mother's blood to bolster his claim. Lyanna’s child will not be able to count on any of this. The Faith has strongly opposed everything Rhaegar has tried to do so far, and the common people are all whipped up against him. The High Septon himself declared Rhaegar would remain uncrowned while he continues to practice polygamy!

Those two have trampled upon every institution that binds our society together – oaths, marriage alliances, betrothals. And the son of such a couple? Who is to say he will not imbibe all their worst traits? No, my Princess, you have nothing to fear.”

By the end of Wynona’s speech, her heart has stopped its wild, irregular thumping. They’re both right. They’ve oversimplified matters and don’t seem to realize the full extent to which the other houses despise the Dornish but in essence, they are right.

Rhaegar still refuses to see reason and send away his new wife. It must be the madness in his blood that has him convinced he can have both marriages and play at being Aegon the Conqueror. And Elia knows who will be the winner in a race between a young northern filly and tired Dornish mare. She would rather leave on her own terms, having won certain concessions, than be flung out by the ear.

Walking to the door, she motions for Ashara to let go and opens it a crack. Peeking her head outside, she asks Septa Eleanor to find the High Septon and the Most Devout and bring them in.

Elia has a marriage to dissolve.

****

Before the Most Devout arrive, Elia and her ladies make final adjustments to the children’s clothes and her own appearance. 

Her hair is bound up in a silver net at the nape of her neck with a few curly tendrils loose around her face, and her head is covered in with a fine black veil of Myrish lace. Her sleeves are also lace and are tiered, ruffling down to her wrists. The dress is dull black silk with a square necked bodice, drawing the eye straight to the seven-pointed star of white gold studded with rubies sitting in the centre of her chest. She has taken special care to rouge her lips, has rubbed honey and haldi over her body until her dark skin glows like a burning candle, and put kajal around her eyes to make them look deep and lustrous.

Elia smiles at her reflection in the hand mirror. She looks especially delicate, and beautiful, and pious today. Hopefully, alongside her children, she paints a sweet enough picture to sway people’s opinion in her favour. 

Rhaenys and Aegon are little sweetlings in fine matching clothes, with Aegon dressed head to toe in black, standing out shockingly against his silver hair and purple eyes. Rhaenys has been given a black sash embroidered with red dragons that goes from shoulder to waist. It was supposed to be a surprise to make up for not being able to bring along her cat, Balerion, but she seems to barely notice it. 

Elia has tried to explain to her daughter in rudimentary terms what is occurring today, but she isn’t sure how much she understood. Gods be good the poor thing is only four, it's a sorry shame that she should even need to be told such a thing. Normally she’d be babbling childishly to Elia’s ladies about her pretty new sash, but she just stands stiffly, like a little wooden soldier, as her mother fixes her dress. 

Elia feels a stab of guilt, seeing her daughter’s huge dark eyes looking up at her. She should have let Rhaenys bring the cat, regardless of what other people would have thought. She’s been very worried about her girl lately. Once she had come off bed rest after Aegon’s delivery, and finally free of the haze caused by the milk of the poppy she had noticed the changes that had come over her daughter.

All the fire seems to have gone out of her brave, bright girl. She doesn’t wander the castle with her cat or beg the Kingsguard to let her ride on their shoulders, or pinch sweets at supper time. All she does is follow Elia around like a small shadow, crying if her mother so much as leaves the room without her. 

She crouches down so she is on eye level with her daughter and brushes the hair off her warm little forehead. 

“How is my Rhae girl?” Elia says gently. 

“Fine, Ammi” she responds. 

“Are you sure?”

“Ammi,” Rhaenys says, looking at the ground “can I ask you something?”

“Yes, of course.” 

“Why are you leaving? Why did Baba-jaan leave?” Rhaenys says, beginning to cry. She balls up her fists and rubs at her eyes while Elia frantically searches for a handkerchief. “If you stay I'll be a good girl just as Septa says. I won’t steal cakes at supper, and I’ll share all my toys with Aeg-Aegon” she says, sobbing so hard now she’s hiccupping. “Please don’t go.”

She fights to hold back her tears, not wanting to frighten Rhaenys further and starts wiping her daughter's face. “Darling, listen to me. I am not leaving because you did anything wrong. You are a good daughter and a kind and sweet little girl.”

“But Ammi-“

Elia puts both her hands on Rhaenys’ face and holds her still so she can look straight into her daughter’s eyes. “I have to leave, so I can find some strong and powerful friends. These friends will help me to keep you and your brother safe from those who wish to harm you. You’ve sung the Song of the Seven with Septa yes? You know how the Mother loves her little children?” Rhaenys nods uncertainly. 

“Well can you see the Mother here right now?” Elia asks, waiting until Rhaenys shakes her head no. 

“That is like me Rhaenys. I might not be here, and you might not see me, but wherever I am I will always love you and protect you, do you understand me?”

Rhaenys nods at this, and through a watery smile asks, “For true?”

“For true, my darling.” Elia says, opening up her arms and embracing her little girl as tightly as she can, straightening up when she hears the doors open and the High Septon sweep into the room with his retinue trailing behind.

She quickly kisses Rhaenys, tells her they shall talk more later, and gives her over to Septa Eleanor so she can greet the newcomers.

“Your Grace.” The High Septon says, inclining his head. Elia bends low over his right hand and kisses the heavy signet ring on his finger. “Your High Holiness, thank you very much for agreeing to conduct my trial today” she replies.

“Princess, it is always a pleasure to be of assistance to a woman of great faith such as yourself.”

Elia smiles gently but scoffs inside her head. She _is_ a woman of great faith but that isn’t the point. There is something distinctly…odd about this septon. She has never met a man more eager to be blackmailed in her life.

When she’d been working through the rough outlines of an idea with Doran, she’d asked her ladies to find compromising information on certain people. But when gossipy Ginny Fowler had come back, saying that the High Septon had three natural sons living in a well-made house on the Street of the Sisters, you could have knocked her over with a feather.

Not because he appeared so very pious to her, but simply because he seemed like the sort of cold-blooded, shrewd man who knew on which side his bread was buttered. The last sort of person to put his ambitions at risk. Naturally, Elia had gone to him expecting that once she revealed she knew about his children, he’d be quaking in his boots! But she had been mistaken.

Instead, when she had hinted at the existence of his sons, he’d raised one bushy silver eyebrow, and waited for her to continue. She had gone on and implied that she would be happy to be their patroness and offer them places in either the Dornish Navy or with one of her brother’s ambassadors to the Free Cities. Opportunities where even a baseborn boy, with a father who could never openly acknowledge him, could rise high and win great honours.

At this, he smiled and told her that she had made the right decision. He would be happy to work with her to ensure his son's futures, he said, and of course would render whatever assistance he could, to a great lady such as herself. She feels like she took some sort of test with him that day and passed without studying.

After that, he had been as helpful as could be and went out of his way to arrange everything to her specifications. He agreed uncomplainingly to the return of her whole dowry. He suggested she increase the interest rate she requested on the repayment, from seven to eighteen percent. He seemed perfectly happy to allow her children to spend half the year with her and half with their father.

But as she looks over at his ash-blonde hair, silvering with age, and his pale blue eyes, Elia feels like she is missing something. This all feels too good to be true. 

“Are you worried, Your Grace?” he says mildly.

Well, she is now that he’s gone and reminded her! “A little bit, Holy Father” she laughs nervously. 

“Ah, my princess you should not be. All matters of actual substance have been negotiated by us well beforehand. Now all that remains is to convince the masses.” He says, gesturing at the viewing gallery while walking away.

It’s rapidly filling up with whichever courtiers her ladies have managed to quickly get word to, and she’s happy to see they aren’t only Dornishmen either. Mace Tyrell is crammed up uncomfortably against Jason Mallister, and Matthis Rowan is deep in conversation with Nestor Royce. But wherever she looks she is pleased that she cannot see any of Rhaegar’s close friends or advisors.

Tywin Lannister, newly re-instated as Hand, Jon Connington that love-struck cretin, Richard Lonmouth, Myles Mooton, and the Kingsguard are no-where to be seen. They're probably comforting Rhaegar in whatever corner of the library he’s sulking in. Ashara must have already tricked Arthur and locked him in some room as she’d promised because Elia can’t see him anywhere either.

It was certainly a stroke of genius picking this day for her trial. No one here is particularly friendly with Rhaegar and they’ll probably be too focused on her to send word to him of what she is doing. He’s had no time to prepare any sort of defence, and she plans to keep this hearing short. He won’t even have time to reach the sept from the Red Keep if someone does manage to tell him what is happening.

Elia takes a deep breath, and wipes her clammy hands on her skirts, as the High Septon and six of the Most Devout take up their seats on the seven judicial thrones on the dais.

She can do this; she thinks to herself. She has already rehearsed and organized every aspect of this trial with Doran and the High Septon and now all that is left is to see it through.

At this stage, she thinks wryly, it is not so much a trial as a mummer’s farce, with all the characters and dialogue decided, and the stage set.

She should be used to that; she feels like her whole life has been one performance after the other. Acting like she did not mind being a sickly little girl, so she didn’t sadden her parents. Acting stronger than she was so people would not have more reason to mock her health. Acting like she was pleased when she was betrothed to Rhaegar and had to leave her family and her home for this strange, unhappy city. 

She has had ample practice playing many roles, has been the dutiful daughter, and the obedient wife. Why should she have any problem with this one?

 _Now,_ Elia thinks, sitting down and squaring her thin shoulders, _like any good actress, I must not forget my lines_.

****

Truth be told this trial business is rather simple once one begins. She floundered a little at the start, but her recent answers have been very good.

Naturally, most of the main arguments had evaporated when she argued that her marriage should be dissolved, _not_ annulled, based on the privilege of the Faith. All she must do is prove that Rhaegar is a danger to her faith and swear on the seven-pointed star to remarry a pious man who will not lead her astray, and she’s won her case.

She still had to dodge some curly questions. That one owlish looking septon who sharply asked her if Lady Lyanna had used savage rites and northern witchcraft to seduce the Prince into her bed had been particularly hard to put off, but she’d managed it. The last thing she needs right now is the Northerners taking it into their head to start a second war because she insulted their Gods.

“Do any of my brothers have any further questions for the Princess?” the High Septon inquires, as the poor scribe taking notes scribbles furiously to try and catch up. After waiting a moment, he continues “Very well. I believe you had a closing speech you wished to give, Your Grace?”

This is it, the moment she has waited for. She can still see some disapproving looks coming her way from the gallery and if this speech won’t melt their hearts, she is not sure what will.

Taking a deep breath, in her rich, strong voice she begins.

“My Lords, Ladies, and my learned Judges, have pity on me I beg you. Look upon me, a Princess, reduced to this ignoble state by the cruellest and most undeserved of circumstances.

Have compassion for me, I ask you, for I am unfortunate enough to be a stranger in this city. You are lucky, you have your friends and family around you. Unhappy fate made me a foreigner to this place. And I have no mother or brother or any of my blood to turn to in my extremity, now that my husband seeks to abandon our lawful marriage, and orders me to live in terrible sin with his mistress.

Alas, I cannot say why he has visited such a punishment on me. To the Prince, I have been naught but a loyal and true wife. Always eager to follow his commands, even when I, with my ill-health, could not be certain of their fulfillment. 

I eagerly removed myself to Dragonstone with him, after we were wed, although the cold and damp worsened my health, because a wife’s place is beside her husband. Knowing it was my duty to bear him children, and particularly a boy to be his heir, I did so twice. This was done in a short span of time, at great risk to myself and I almost paid the price with my life. When he shamed me at Harrenhal, I held no grudge. Instead, I made myself more comfortable to his preferences and pleasures, in order that I should not displease him again.

I have ever been a gentle wife, but in all good conscience I cannot bear his latest request, nor should any person of faith! And for this, I am branded a disobedient woman and have my own rights, and the rights of my children threatened!”

As she nears the end, she widens her eyes and slides down from her chair, kneeling with her hands tightly clasped before her.

“Holy Father, I fling myself upon your mercy. Some of your brothers have said today that a woman should turn to her husband for guidance and protection but what is a wife to do when that husband is the one she seeks protection from? What is a Mother to do when the greatest threat to her children comes from their own Father? 

I beg you in the name of the Father who judges us all justly, do not forsake me and my children. I beseech you; protect me and give me justice!”

She prostrates herself after this, with her legs tucked underneath her and her palms flat on the ground, although every muscle in her back and legs is screaming in agony. Her veil falls over her face and there she stays until High Septon bids her rise and Ashara hurries over to help her to her feet.

“You have spoken eloquently and truly, Your Grace,” The High Septon says, rising from his throne. “And have given us much to think on. We will deliberate together in a separate room, and then we shall return with our verdict.”

While they wait, Elia asks for a drink to soothe her parched throat. Everything she said was true, but even in her moment of victory, the wine she has been given tastes like vinegar and ashes in her mouth. What she would be able to give to tell everyone what she _really_ thought of the circumstances that led her here.

She _is_ a gentle person, and she has been a good wife. Truly she has, but she was never permitted to be anything else.

Ladies who were held in esteem by their husbands, she had been told, kept their households well, kept themselves busy with their sewing and their children, and shouldered every burden they were given uncomplainingly. Such women were rewarded with their husbands’ respect.

Where is her reward? Or her respect? She has followed this advice to the letter and has nothing to show for it. She has given her husband everything; her health, her children, her joy, and he gladly took it all, and used it, and then flung it back in her face.

She still remembers his ridiculous explanation for his actions at that damned Tourney. About how he’d only meant to honour Lady Lyanna’s fierce nature. He’d said that because the Stark girl had gone against the usual conventions of her sex, by bearing arms and secretly entering the joust, she had deserved that moment of glory with the crown of flowers. At Elia’s own expense, naturally.

Well whose fault is it if she never swung a sword or entered a tourney, Elia thinks indignantly. She would never have been allowed to do any such thing even if her health had permitted it!

And Rhaegar certainly never complained when she painstakingly mended the tears in his clothes, so he did not have to ask his father for a greater allowance. Or when he was free to go sing at Summerhall because she remained on Dragonstone and kept the castle running smoothly. Or when she tried to use her gentle nature to calm Aerys on the rare occasion she saw him. 

Above all, Elia thinks, her husband is a hypocrite. He will gladly enjoy the fruits of her labour while demeaning and abusing the woman who makes them.

She sees the main door of the room swing open in the corner of her eye and her judges march back in and take their seats. It’s amusing to see his High Holiness smiling as though _he_ is the one escaping an unsatisfactory husband, while he climbs up the dais and begins to address the courtroom.

When she hears him confirm that her marriage is dissolved, she digs her nails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from smiling. She turns and looks at the faces of the Lords and Ladies in the gallery. Judging their general reaction is crucial.

Most of the men look stunned, but a few of the more pious lords nod along when his High Holiness talks about the importance of stamping out polygamy. In contrast, most of the ladies look relieved and happy, especially when Rhaenys and Aegon’s legitimacy and inheritance rights are affirmed. Nestor Royce’s wife actually catches her eye and is saucy enough to give Elia a grin and a wink behind her husband’s back.

“…and therefore, to put an end to the uncertainty into which the realm has been plunged, and the state of deplorable sin which Prince Rhaegar currently lives, I propose that we publicly and immediately pronounce the marriage dissolved. Your Grace, do you concur?” 

“Certainly, your High Holiness” she replies smoothly. He sweeps down the steps with surprising spryness for a man his age and gallantly offers her an arm as they make their way through the room, and outside.

She catches a glimpse of a woman in a window as she walks past and is stunned to realize it is her own reflection. She can barely recognize herself. Her eyes are flashing, her head is thrown back proudly, and a curious trick of the glass makes it look like she is in the street; standing at the head of her own gilded carriage that waits outside. 

Elia’s red mouth curves upwards and she takes one last look at the lady in the glass, making her triumphant procession in a golden chariot.

****

She blinks as she steps outside, dazzled by the bright sunlight and the roar of the crowd around the Sept. The news seems to have travelled almost on the wind to every corner of the city. Her shock only increases when she actually listens to what the people are yelling and hears them screaming out her name and shouting encouragement when they see her.

“Seven bless you lady!” she can see a fishwife yelling while balancing a basket on one hip.

“Take heart Princess!” a young maid screams through cupped hands.

She hears other voices too. Mostly ladies, but some men as well. Telling her to have courage, to be strong, to have no cares. Her eyes have been dry all day but this is what finally brings tears. And she isn’t ashamed in the slightest. Weeping with these people will never be a waste of water.

 _We are just like soldiers_ she thinks to herself, _like brothers in arms._ They have all fought and suffered together under Aerys’ madness and Rhaegar’s obsession and here they are, veterans, living to tell the tale. 

When the High Septon follows her out all the noise dies. It has become unnaturally quiet for such a large crowd and Elia is uncomfortably reminded of Harrenhal. Well, today _she_ has won the final tilt, and much like her useless former husband, she is going to be crowning someone else.

The smallfolk seem to realize that something momentous is about to occur for whenever someone speaks above a whisper, or a child cries out they are immediately hushed by those closest to them. You could hear a coin drop on the cobblestones.

The High Septon’s sonorous voice breaks through the calm, like a gong being struck, and gradually the noise begins to grow deafening around her. Cries of outrage when her marriage to Rhaegar is dissolved. Boos and jeers when it is announced that if Prince Rhaegar wishes to be crowned he must wed Lady Lyanna again, this time in the presence of a septon and more than 2 witnesses, lest they continue to live in concubinage. Laughter when their son is declared a bastard who must be legitimized by royal decree _after_ they are wed. Cheers, when Rhaenys and Aegon are declared legitimate.

Elia feels almost faint with happiness as his High Holiness finishes announcing the dissolution of her marriage. She wants to tear off her silver circlet and fling it in the air like a cap. She wants to cast off her disgusting black and red cloak and grind it into the dirt until the bells on her anklet ring. She wants to go singing and dancing for joy down the steps.

She can do none of those things.

She has come so far being the perfect, gentle, demure princess, and the farce needs to continue on for a few moments longer. So, she draws her veil over her face, puts her head on Ashara’s shoulder, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my friends: Bonnie, Tush, Tanu, and Fran. 
> 
> Russian translation available here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28612668, here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/10277915/26446294, or here: https://7kingdoms.ru/talk/threads/14418/ - Many thanks to DaenaRu for translating! 
> 
> General stuff: 
> 
> 1\. I don't own ASOIAF. If I did I'd be a hell of a lot richer and I'd treat the PoC characters with more respect. 
> 
> 2\. This story was inspired by a whole host of things, but mainly by the similarities I found between Medea and Elia. If you think about it there's a weirdly large amount of them: both foreign princesses, in a strange city facing huge amounts of xenophobia, abandoned by their husbands for a woman who arguably has more social capital than them, has 2 children with the aforementioned deadbeat husband, and their children's lives are directly threatened by husband’s actions. Both of them are connected with Tiger imagery. Medea is described as a "a tigress, not a woman" and Elia "fought like a tigress against Gregor Clegane". 
> 
> 3\. This was also inspired by Catherine of Aragon's Blackfriars trial! Thank you to beckyblueeyes for giving me the idea (go check out her stuff she's great). Elia's speech in this is a blend of Catherine of Aragon's speech and Medeas monologue on the difficulties of marriage.
> 
> 4\. In this fic I wanted to offer an alternative Elia than the one done by people who always paint Elia as super meek and gentle and seem to think she’d have gone along with everything Rhaegar did because she was just so nice. To those people I say with the deepest respect: Crack? Is it crack that you smoke? Give me whatever you're having because its clearly good shit and I need it to get through this hell year.
> 
> 5\. I was also motivated by GRRM making all his characters of colour: sexy/dead/sexy AND dead. A serious word to white authors: if you can’t be bothered to treat your non-white characters with the same level of compassion and humanity you give to your white characters then don't write them. If you are going to write PoC do your research into racist tropes and how they are perpetuated and don't fucking use them. 
> 
> 6\. Say it with me everyone: Elia doesn’t have to help Lyanna or sympathize with her to be a good person. We aren’t going to blame Lyanna, a 15-year-old girl for getting groomed by a man, but in this quasi-medieval setting Elia’s life and the life of her two kids are in danger because of what happened. Elia can feel whatever she wants and retain the moral high ground. PoC don’t exist solely to help white people at their own expense. 
> 
> Specific stuff:
> 
> 7\. The “privilege of the Faith” here is based on the real Petrine privilege in the Catholic Church. Petrine privilege allows the dissolution of a marriage between a baptized catholic, and an unbaptized person (or 2 non-baptized Catholics) in order that the person may remarry a Catholic and “save their soul” by marrying a person of faith. I've switched it up a bit because baptism doesn’t seem to really be a thing in the faith of the seven. Elia has grabbed the propaganda machine by the throat and ruined any latent goodwill R+L have left with the common people. Through this marriage dissolution, she has painted Rhaegar as abandoning the Faith by his marriage to Lyanna to the extent that Elia must leave to “save her soul”. 
> 
> 8\. Changing the letters announcing the birth of a prince to a princess happened! Sort of. When King Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn were expecting their first child they assumed it would be a boy and Henry prepared letters in advance announcing the birth of "his son the prince". When Elizabeth I was born a girl, they had to hastily add “ss” to the end of "prince", and Henry cancelled the celebratory joust he had planned. 
> 
> 9\. Dorne is inspired here by post-Mughal India and South Asia because I'm Indian and I do what I want. Putting lemons and chilis on a string and hanging them in certain places is supposed to ward off the evil eye (so Pilar was basically joking that Arthur was going to curse someone). Ammi and Baba mean Mum and Dad in Hindi/Urdu and “jaan” is a suffix that means dear or darling. So “baba-jaan” literally translates to “father dear” but it's just an affectionate endearment for your father. Haldi is the Hindi word for Tumeric and Tumeric and honey make a great face mask (pale people do not try this!! It will dye your skin yellow). Kajal is a Hindi word for Kohl. 
> 
> 10\. Poor Jon, the bastard name-calling has begun already and he’s 1 day old. He really can't catch a break. 
> 
> This is the first time I've written in 6 years so I'm probably very rusty - constructive criticism is welcome! But also as a Leo I can only take criticism that is flattering and in no way critical of me so please be nice. 
> 
> I've also made a fic writing Tumblr if you want to come have a chat: tweedstoat.tumblr.com


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